


Flying Lessons

by anneapocalypse



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Femslash February
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 12:49:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse/pseuds/anneapocalypse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niner takes South out for a spin. </p><p>Written for <a href="http://mechanized-american.tumblr.com">mechanized-american</a> and <a href="http://missl0nelyhearts.tumblr.com">missl0nelyhearts</a> on tumblr for Femslash February.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flying Lessons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misslonelyhearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslonelyhearts/gifts).



“Pull up a little. And adjust your throttle.”

“The fuck’s wrong with my throttle?”

“You need to course-correct—”

“I  _am_ —.”

“No,  _listen_ , you gotta compensate for drift. We’re in a belt—”

From behind her she hears South snort. “You’re such a fucking know-it-all.”

“Who’s giving who flying lessons, again?” Niner says drily, and rolls her eyes, though she knows South can’t see. “You tag an asteroid in my bird, we’re gonna have problems, just sayin’. Now pull the fuck up and adjust your goddamn throttle.”

South complies, but snickers. “Dunno how Carolina stands it up here. Dunno how you stand her, for that matter.”

“Keep bitching. I’ll tell her I let you sit in her chair.”

“Carolina can sit on a dick.”

“Feeling threatened?”

“By her? Fuck no.” South makes a noise of contempt. “I got the best seat in the house anyway. On your face.”

“Cunt.”

“Bitch.”

And this is both of them playing nice.

Stupid really, what they’ve been doing, but ever since that first day in the hangar, pinned up against the wall behind one of the Pelicans, Niner can’t find it in her to complain. Usually because she’s finding something else in her. Like South’s tongue.

“You’re pulling up too hard.”

“I’m stopping.”

“ _Why_ …?”

Sure enough, South’s pulling the Pelican to a standstill. “I want a break.”

“Uh huh. And I want to get back to the _Invention_  before somebody notices I took you out for an unauthorized spin.”

She hears laughter and the thud of South’s boots hitting the floor as she hops down from the co-pilot seat.

 

South tastes tart. Not in some kind of bullshit metaphoric way, she actually tastes like lemons, probably from chugging some of that powdered sports drink shit from the mess before they left. Kissing South’s a contact sport. South’s all teeth and nails and muttered curses. Teeth dragging raw on her lips, fingers in her thick dark curls coming loose from their knot. Nails marking up her spine and making her shiver. South always has the iciest hands, slow to warm against her skin.

South has to stop, drag her hands out of Niner’s already-open flight suit to unbuckle her breastplate. Unsuiting in space. Kind of a thrill to that. The drop ships seal up of course but hey, faulty airlocks, that shit happens. Recycled air cool and dry on exposed skin, reminding you where you are. Floating in a tin can. Nothing but space out there. Cold and empty as shit.

Niner doesn’t give South a chance to get her undersuit down, just drags her back in for another kiss, pressing a hand to her chest—South’s got small square tits, fit nice in a palm—thumbing over her nipple through the smooth synthetic fabric, before reaching around her back to pull down the zipper herself.

Inside of a minute they’re both stripped to the waist except for their sport bras, worst things for it but what are you gonna do. South’s preoccupied anyway, pushing her up against the wall, biting her collarbone—has to stoop to do it, she’s a good few inches taller.

They’re both impatient, hands all over each other, but South gets to her first, snaking wiry hands down her pants to curl between her legs. Niner hisses at the cool fingers parting her lips and South laughs, smug and sharp.

Niner tangles fingers in South’s pale purple-tipped hair, flattened and flyaway from her helmet. She tugs a little, and South’s responding kiss is hard, hungry, shoving her back against the wall. She couldn’t break away if she wanted to; South may not have wings, but she’s got long stretches of hard muscle, pressing close all along Niner’s body, sparking heat along every limb. She’s hot, even where the air touches her skin but especially below. Wet too, where South’s fingers circle with confident strokes.

Niner can bite back, shove and curse well enough in her own right, but South’s sheer physical strength puts her on top here and she’s setting the pace: quick. Fingers wet, warming finally as they massage circles against her clit. Sharp, eager nips at her ear and South’s free hand pinching her nipple through the sports bra she’s too impatient to remove. Niner arches against the wall, groaning as South leans into her, and it’s not like any of this is Niner's first rodeo but she’s gotta hand it to South for how quick she can bring here there, pulsing wet with waves of pleasure at every stroke.

She barely has time to catch her breath before South’s dragging her hand down between her own thighs with a low growl. Niner pushes off the wall, brushes aside a curl that falls right back in her face as she shoves South up against the wall, twisting her fingers to part South’s tangle of hair and delve into her slick cunt. South grunts breathless approval and grabs her ass to haul her in closer as Niner curls two fingers inside her the way she likes, palm tight against her clit, rocking her hand faster as she finds a rhythm. In spite of her earlier warnings, Niner’s not opposed to taking a little more time, but South’s impatient, covering Niner’s hand with her own to add pressure and gasping _“Fuck”_  as she comes quick, throbbing around Niner’s fingers, grinding into her palm.

 

South never says much afterward, and Niner doesn’t see much reason to disturb the peace as South navigates back through the asteroid belt. Though it does occur to her to be amused that fucking South is the most efficient way to shut her up, and involuntarily she snickers.

“What?” South snaps impatiently.

“Nothing.”

South pulls up, slowing as they approach the _Invention_. “Fuck you.”


End file.
